THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


<U      _      &t 


STORIES. 


NEW  YORK: 

THOMAS   Y.    CROWELL   &   CO., 
No.  13  ASTOR  PLACE. 


A  i  U54- 


tfif^tf 


CHAPTER  I. 

a,,-.,  HAVE  been  looking  everywhere  for 
vou>  Uncle  Richard!  what  are  you 
doing  out  here  alone  ?  "  asks  little 
Beatrice,  as  she  finds  herself  suddenly 
facing  the  old  walnut-tree  in  the  far 
meadow,  and  sees  her  well-beloved  uncle, 
with  his  hat  well  over  his  eyes,  stretched 
out  at  his  ease  among  the  tall  grass  and 
sweet-scented  clover.  "  The  house  is  so 
dull  when  you  are  away ! " 

"  Is  it,  little  girl  ?  "   he  laughs,  as  she 

6 

622722 


6  UNCLE  EICHAED  S  STORIES. 

sits  down  beside  him,  and  coolly  proceeds 
to  take  off  his  hat,  and  to  carefully  plane 
a  kiss  on  his  nose.  "  Well,  you  see,  it 
is  all  so  pleasant  here  —  especially  for  any 
one  like  me,  who  spends  all  his  days 
in  close  streets  and  smoky  towns  —  the 
country  is  such  a  treat." 

"Yes,  but  why  do  you  live  there, 
Uncle  Richard  ?  You  might  as  well 
always  stay  here." 

"  I  might,  dearie ;  but,  you  see,  there's 
duty." 

"Duty  !  I  hate  duty  !  It  always  means 
something  disagreeable  !  "  and  spoiled 
Beatrice  catches  up  a  handful  cf  grass 
and  scatters  it  angrily  about  her. 

"  Not  always.  Indeed,  you  would  find 
it  a  most  uncomfortable  world  if  every 
one  only  did  what  was  agreeable  to 


UNCLE  EICHABD'S  STORIES.          7 

themselves.  I  don't  like  going  about 
among  some  of  the  grinders  and  workers 
of  our  town,  listening  to  their  ugly 
words  and  complaints,  and  sometimes 
seeing  sad  sights  in  their  homes,  half  as 
well  as  I  do  lying  here,  with  God's  pure 
air  and  beautiful  birds  and  flowers  about 
me.  But  then  I  hope  I  am  doing  His 
work  when  I  can  leave  a  good  thought, 
or  do  some  little  service  to  these  poor 
ignorant  children  of  His  —  then  the  heavy 
duty  becomes  very  light  and  pleasant, 
love.  The  yoke  of  Christ  is  not  a  heavy 
one  to  bear  to  those  who  take  it  up 
willingly,  as  I  learn  of  it  here,"  and  he 
looks  reverently  at  the  book  in  his  hand, 
and  then  at  the  blue  sky  so  calm  and 
still. 

"  What  part  are  you  reading,  uncle  ?  " 


8         UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

asks  Beatrice,  eagerly.  "  I  like  best 
about  little  baby  Moses,  or  poor  Joseph, 
who  was  sold,  and  became  rich.  Hagar 
and  Ishmael  is  such  a  sad  story,  though 
Ishmael  did  become  a  great  man.  But 
there  are  plenty  of  children  in  the  Bible 
that  became  famous  prophets  and  kings, 
and  were  written  and  talked  about.  How 
nice  it  would  be  if  one  could  become 
famous  now !  "  Then,  seeing  the  look  in 
her  uncle's  eyes,  Beatrice  added,  "  I  mean, 
become  good  —  very,  very  good  and 
famous." 

"  Good  and  famous  are  such  very  dif- 
ferent things,  Beatie ;  a  man  may  be  fa- 
mous and  very  bad.  Some  men  —  " 

41  Oh,  I  don't  mean  men.  I  mean  chil- 
dren —  boys,  or  girls  like  me.  There 
seems  nothing  at  all  that  we  can  do." 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.          9 

? 

"Girls  like   you   can  do  a  very   great 

deal;  they  can  be  gentle,  and  helpful, 
and  patient  —  unselfish,  in  short  —  think- 
ing of  others  before  themselves,  and  so 
make  others  happy.  That's  doing  some- 
thing, isn't  it?" 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing  I  any  one  can  do 
that !  "  she  sighs,  still  scattering  the 
daisies. 

"  Can  they  ?  I  heard  of  a  girl  disturb- 
ing the  whole  house  all  one  morning, 
because  she  could  not  have  a  new  doll's 
hat.  Yes,  she  did,  really,  Beatrice. 
Then  she  sulked  for  an  hour  —  can  you 
believe  it?  —  because  she  was  asked  to 
mend  her  own  gloves.  The  rest  of  the 
day  was  filled  up  with  complaints,  be- 
cause of  a  small  cut  on  her  thumb  done 
by  herself  with  a  penknife  borrowed  un- 
asked, anci  —  " 


10        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

44  Ob,  please  don't !  "  cried  poor  Beatie, 
with  a  crimsoned  face. 

"  Very  well !  I  only  wanted  to  show 
you  how  much  there  is  for  children  to 
do,  and  very  difficult  work,  too  ;  so  cheer 
up,  while  I  tell  you  the  story  of  a  little 
girl  I  met  with  in  the  course  of  my 
travels  —  only  a  poor  little  simple  country 
child,  but  one  who  taught  nre  how  great 
was  the  power  of  unselfish  love  and  pa- 
tience." 

Beatie,  with  a  mental  resolve  to  be 
good,  recovers  her  composure  at  the 
promise  of  a  story  out  here  among  the 
llowers  and  butterflies,  and  listens  atten- 
tively as  Uncle  Richard  begins. 

44  Once  upon  a  time  — as  all  stories 
ought  to  begin,  only  mine  did  not  begin 
$Q  very  long  ago  —  I  lived  as  curate  in 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        11 

i  pretty  village  in  Yorkshire.  An  out- 
oi  -the-way  spot  it  was,  but  very  pretty, 
and  a  great  place  for  nutting  and  black- 
berries. 

41  During  my  rambles  I  often  met  with 
big  Ben  Bryant,  a  kind  of  under-keeper, 
who  lived  in  a  queer  kind  of  nest,  built 
of  logs  and  stories,  some  distance  from 
the  village,  and  at  the  entrance  of  a 
wood.  It  was  a  wild  out-of-the-way  sort 
of  place,  pretty  enough  in  summer,  when 
it  was  hidden  in  ivy  and  honeysuckle, 
but  dreary  in  the  winter,  when  the  snow 
lying  on  it  made  it  look  like  some 
monster  white  mushroom  —  an  unlucky 
place  the  villagers  said,  for  summer  after 
summer  the  fever  had  stolen  in  like  a 
cruel  thief,  and  carried  off  seven  pretty 
children,  and  at  last  their  patient  weakly 


12        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

mother,  leaving  poor  big  Ben  almost 
broken-hearted,  with  only  Nellie  Mary  to 
comfort  him  ;  and  a  pretty,  bright,  healthy 
looking  gipsy  she  was  when  I  first  saw 
her,  most  precious  to  her  forlorn  father, 
who  seemed  to  have  fixed  all  the  hopes 
and  love  of  his  life  on  this  one  remaining 
little  blossom  of  that  life's  faded  flowers. 

"  I  often  had  long  chats  with  big  Ben, 
when  we  met  in  the  wood,  and  his  honest 
blue  eyes  would  glisten,  and  the  sadness 
go  out  of  his  face  when  he  talked  of  his 
one  darling  —  his  little  maid,  as  he  called 
her.  ne  was  never  tired  of  telling  of 
her  womanly  little  ways  and  speeches  ; 
then  how  she  swept,  and  sewed,  and  sang 
for  him  ;  how  she  had  her  mother's  sweet, 
patient  manners,  and  often  reminded  him 
of  her  waiting  in  heaven  I 


UNCLE  RICHABD'S  STOEIES.        13 

" '  Ah,  sir,'  he  said  to  me  one  day,  *  I 
do  pray  God  every  iiight  to  spare  me  my 
little  maid.  I'm  oft  afraid  she's  too  good 
for  the  like  o'  me.  When  I  get  grieved 
and  low,  o'  nights,  sometimes,  thinking 
o'  them  that's  gone,  she  do  sing  about 
the  goodness  o'  the  Lord,  hymns  and 
such  like  she  have  learnt  at  the  school, 
till  I'm  afraid  she'll  take  wings  like  that 
lark  up  yonder,  sir,  as  is  going  up  and 
up,  forgetting  all  about  the  evil  and  peck* 
ing  as  is  down  in  the  world  below  it  sir. 
She  sings  that  sweet  it  melts  my  grief 
away.  Part  joy,  part  grief,  sir.' 

44  What  he  said  about  her  singing  was 
true  of  him  too.  Every  Sunday  she  came 
hand  in  hand  with  her  father  to  the  tiny 
church,  and  I  could  hear  their  voices, 
clear  and  fresh  above  all  others,  rising 


14        UNCLE  EICHABD'S  STORIES. 

up  to  His  honor  and  giory,  as  though  He 
had  never  sent  them  a  trouble  or  a  trial. 
Then  they  would  trudge  off  together 
lovingly,  hand  in  hand,  through  the  long 
b^es,  with  a  smiling  bob  and  bow  for 
mv.  folks  they  met ;  she  smart  in  an 
old  red  cloth  cloak,  rapidly  getting  too 
small  for  her  growing  self;  he  in  well- 
brushed  velveteens,  and  a  posy  in  his 
button-hole.  As  long  as  her  loving  fin- 
gers could  detect  a  flower  in  any  nook, 
it  was  cherished  for  k  f a  '  on  Sunday  ;  for 
was  he  not  all  the  world  to  her,  his  one 
daughter,  his  pride,  *  his  little  maid  ?  ' 

"  One  Saturday  it  happened  that  I  had 
some  books  sent  from  London,  and  turning 
them  over,  I  came  to  a  small  one,  on  the 
<jover  of  which  was  the  picture  of  a  girl 
in  a  red  cloak.  '  Not  unlike  little  Brant  I ' 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        15 

I  thought ;  so  I  put  it  in  my  pocket,  in- 
tending to  give  it  to  her  when  she  came 
to  church  next  morning.  Then  I  strolled 
out  for  a  walk.  It  was  just  such  a  day 
us  this,  Beatie,  fresh  and  sweet,  and  I 
wandered  on  from  meadow  to  lane,  now 
stopping  to  admire  the  beauties  about 
me,  now  trying  to  decide  which  should 
be  my  Easter  Sunday  text,  when  sud- 
denly something  red  caught  my  eye,  and 
I  saw  it  was  a  cloak  lying  on  a  chair, 
which  chair  was  standing  in  the  porch 
of  Log  Lodge,  as  the  people  called  it. 
I  had  come  over  three  miles,  so  I  stopped 
to  breathe,  and  think  how  pretty  and 
peaceful  it  all  looked.  Only  a. little  noisy 
bulfinch  sang  and  twittered  in  the  win- 
dow, over  its  nest  all  smothered  in  honey- 
suckle, and  a  happy  cat  and  kittens  lay 
purring  on  the  grass-plat. 


16        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

44  Suddenly  I  remembered  the  book  in 
my  pocket.  I  was  in  a  good  mind  to  go 
in  and  give  it  to  Nellie  Mary  in  exchange 
for  a  few  of  those  smiles  which  I  knew 
it  would  conjure  up.  As  I  paused  unde- 
cided, I  heard  a  light  joyous  laugh,  which 
the  bird  stopped  its  note  to  listen  to. 
Then  —  oh,  then  !  —  I  heard  a  far  differ- 
ent sound  ring  through  the  air  —  the 
sudden  report  of  a  gun,  followed  by  a 
shriek,  a  cry,  and  a  fall. 

"For  a  moment  I  thought  it  must  be 
some  hunter  near ;  but  then  the  lodge 
door  was  broken  open  from  within,  and 
ft  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  came  rushing 
frantically  along  the  path,  so  pale,  so 
haggard,  and  so  wild,  I  scarcely  knew 

for  big  brown  Ben,  the  keeper. 
4 1  caught  him  in  my  arms,  exclaiming. 


UNCLE  RICHAKD'S  STORIES.        17 

'What  —  who  has  done  this,  Ben?'  for 
I  thought  he  was  wounded. 

"  '  I  ha'  done  it :  I  ha*  done  it ! '  he 
cried,  struggling  in  my  hold  like  a  mad- 
inan ;  '  I  ha'  killed  her,  I  say.  Let  me 
go!' 

"'Done  what?  done  what,  man?'  and 
I  forced  him  to  stand  stilL 

"'I  ha'  killed  her  — my  Nell!  I  ha' 
seen  her  dead,  I  tell  thee  !  My  last  darl- 
ing is  dead ;  4 1  ha'  killed  her  !  Let  me 
die  too  I ' 

"  Then,  as  I  let  go  my  hold,  he  cast 
himself  on  the  turf,  and  lay,  face  down- 
wards, like  a  dead  man. 

"  I  ran  hurriedly  into  the  lodge.  There 
was  a  gun  on  the  floor  ;  and  on  the  black 
hearth-rug  lay  little  Nelly  Mary,  while 
scattered  about  her  were  a  lot  of  wild 


18        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

flowers,  which  she  had  evidently  been 
tying  up  as  she  fell.  My  own  heart 
almost  stopped  as  I  stooped  down  to  feel 
hers.  Thank  God !  it  was  beating  yet, 
though  she  was  senseless.  Then  1  saw 
it  was  her  arm  that  had  been  injured. 
The  old  story  —  a  gun  left  loaded,  and 
carelessly  handled.  Oh  dear,  how  many 
lives  this  one  mistake  has  cost ! 

"  I  dared  not  move  her,  but  I  put  some 
water  to  her  pale  lips  and  face ;  and  pres- 
ently the  blue  eyes  opened,  looked  won- 
deringly  round,  and  fixed  themselves  on 
the  gun,  lying  near. 

"'Where's  fa'!'  she  whispered,  chok- 
ingly. 

"  '  He's  here,  darling  —  he's  here,  little 
Nell.  Keep  quiet,  your  father  wishes  it, 
dear ! ' 


UNCLE  RICHABD'S  STOKLES.         19 

"  Ah  ! '  she  sighed  softly,  4 1  'm  glad  it 
did  not  hurt  poor  fa'  instead  of  me.' 
Then  she  lay  quite  still  again,  a  picture 
of  patience. 

4i  A  deep  groan  made  me  look  up  with 
a  start.  4  Is  my  little  maid  dead  ?  '  asked 
a  hoarse  voice.  Ben  had  risen,  and  come 
to  the  door.  His  eyes  were  quite  dry, 
and  bright  and  shiny. 

44  4  Ben,'  I  said,  4  with  God's  help,  your 
child  will  recover,  but  we  must  have  a 
doctor  at  once  ;  you  must  go  to  the  village 
as  fast  as  you  can.' 

44  fc  I  canna  go,  sir  !  1  canna  leave  her. 
Do  you  go,  sir.  I  pray  you,  let  me  stay 
by  her.  Maybe  she's  dying,  my  little 
maid,  and  I  killed  her,'  he  wailed. 

44  *  Nonsense,  Ben  I  go  at  once.  ¥ou 
are  fresher  and  quicker  than  I.  I  will 


20        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

watch  her.  She  is  safe  for  the  present, 
I  tell  you,  man  !  Go  —  run,  for  her  life  I 
If  you  love  her  and  wish  to  save  her, 
go!' 

"  He  flung  himself  down  over  the  rug, 
careful  in  his  sorrow  not  to  hurt  her,  and 
kissed  her  still  face  in  tearless  agony. 
Then  he  tore  off  like  a  hunted  hare, 
down  the  green  lanes  and  across  the 
meadows ;  it  was  a  race  for  a  life,  dearer 
far  than  his  own. 


CHAPTER  H. 

STAYED  alone  by  that  little  figure, 
doing  all  I  could  for  her,  which  was 
not  much;  but  I  bound  up  the  hurt 
arm,  gave  her  water,  and  waited.  Every 
now  and  then  she  roused  a  little,  and 
asked  for  cfa' — dear  fa' — poor  fa." 

"  I  think  she  was  bewildered  whether 
the  same  shot  had  touched  them  both ;  but 
she  never  once  complained  of  her  own 
hurt  and  pain:  he  was  her  only  trouble, 
and  the  not  seeing  him  fretted  her  woe- 
fully. I  could  not  persuade  her  he  was 
safe.  At  last  —  how  long  it  seemed  to 
21 


22         UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

me,  yet  how  short  a  time  it  realty  was  1 
—  there  came  a  sound  of  wheels,  nearer 
and  nearer,  then  good  fat  Dr.  Robbins 
came  hurrying  in,  his  face  full  of  tender 
compassion. 

"  4  Well,  well,  my  little  girl Why, 

here's  a  pretty  to-do,'  he  said,  softly, 
bending  over  her.  Then,  as  he  saw  her 
looking  uneasily  behind  him,  he  beckoned 
to  her  father,  who  came  forward,  still 
white  and  tearless  and  desperate.  4  Come, 
father,  we  want  you  to  help  us  a  little. 
Don't  let  her  see  you  quake,  man  ! '  he 
whispered.  •  You  can  do  more  than  I  can 
to  soothe  her.'  But  she  had  fainted  again. 

41  Between  them  they  lifted  the  thick 
i  ug  and  its  senseless  occupant,  and  carried 
it  on  to  the  little  bed ;  then  I  took  Ben's 
hand,  and  led  him  outside.  He  stood 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        23 

quite  still  where  I  placed  him  —  still  as  if 
he  had  been  stone.  The  little  bullfinch 
sang  louder  and  more  merrily  than  ever ;  1 
could  have  choked  it  just  then.  I  should 
have  tried  to  comfort  the  poor  man,  but  I 
was  too  excited  and  troubled.  Oh,  how 
long  the  doctor  seemed  !  Would  he  tell 
us  the  child  must  die  ?  Poor,  poor  Ben  I 
At  this  moment  out  waddled  the  doctor. 
He  shut  the  door  very  quietly  behind  him, 
then  he  turned  to  the  stony  figure  by  his 
side,  and  gave  him  a  great  hearty  slap  on 
the  back,  crying,  in  his  kind  voice,  4  Cheer 
up,  Ben  Briant !  there's  no  fear ;  it's  a 
bad  flesh-wound,  but  it  will  heal,  with 
care.  Come,  look  up,  man  I  Your  little 
maid's  the  right  sort  to  mend.  She's 
patience  itself,  and  will  be  well  in  a 
month,  if  you  keep  her  quiet.  And  no 


24        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

fretting,  mind !  Your  business  is  to  cheer 
her  up ! ' 

"  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  *  Thank  God  I 
haven't  killed  her ! '  which  burst  from 
that  poor  father,  as  he  let  himself  drop 
straight  down  on  his  knees  and,  laying  his 
face  on  the  old  red  cloak,  wept  and  sobbed 
out  his  thankfulness,  forgetting  we  were 
there. 

"The  doctor,  opening  the  door,  drew 
me  into  the  room  gently.  '  Poor  chap  I 
let  him  have  it  out,  for,  bless  me !  he  has 
something  to  be.  thankful  for.  If  the  shot 
had  lodged  anywhere  else  she'd  have  been 
gone  straight  off.  Ah,  well !  —  What's 
that  you're  saying,  my  dear?  We  can't 
have  any  talking  yet!  Yes,  your  fa'  is 
coming  —  never  fear.  1 11  fetch  him  in 
now.  Come,  father,  to  little  NelJ.' 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        25 

"  When  I  looked  in  an  hour  or  two 
afterwards,  with  the  nurse  I  had  brought 
to  help  Ben,  I  found  him  sitting  by  her 
bedside,  with  her  uninjured  hand  in  his. 
She  had  had  a  little  sleep,  and  was  better 
now,  she  said.  And  how  pretty  and 
patient  she  looked,  with  her  golden  hair 
lying  on  her  pillow  like  a  crown !  I 
thought  she  did  not  see  me,  but  she  did, 
in  an  instant,  and  drew  her  hand  out  of 
Ben's  for  a  moment  —  only  for  a  moment 
—  to  put  it  into  mine. 

"  '  I  am  so  glad ' 

•" '  My  dear,  you  must  not  speak,'  I 
said,  hurriedly. 

"  '  No,  sir,  I  won't  any  more ;  but  I  am 
BO  glad  it  was  me  that  was  hurt,  instead 
of  fa'!' 

"'Oh  Nelly,  darling!'  he  said,  softly, 


26        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

foi  he  was  trying  not  to  excite  himself, 
for  her  sake,  4 1  could  have  borne  ten 
times  as  much,  to  save  you  pain.' 

"  I  held  up  a  warning  finger,  for  she 
was  flushing  as  she  answered,  4  But  I  am 
onl}  a  little  girl,  of  no  use,  and  you  are 
fa,'  that  does  so  much  for  me.  I  can 
better  keep  still  than  you,  and  the  ache 
will  leave  off  if  I  try  to  be  good,  won't 
it?" 

"And  did  she  get  quite  well?"  asked 
Beatie,  with  a  great  lump  in  her  throat. 

*•  She  did,  dear.  You  see,  she  was 
gentle  and  quiet,  trying  to  bear  patiently 
what  she  saw  was  so  great  a  trial  to  her 
father,  she  never  complained,  she  never 
spoke  of  herself,  and  only  loved  him  the 
more  for  the  accident,  showing  that  even 
a  child  can  be  strong  to  bear,  if  there  is  a 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        27 

good  will  to  help,  and  unselfish  love  for 
others. 

A  few  weeks  after  Uncle  Richard  had 
gone  Beatrice  had  a  fall  over  a  step  —  a 
little  thing,  it  seemed,  but  it  sprained  her 
ankle  very  severely ;  it  was  bathed  in 
warm  water,  and  rubbed  and  bathed  again. 
She  must  lie  still  on  the  sofa,  was  the 
doctor's  verdict,  or  it  would  be  a  serious 
matter. 

"  Still  on  the  sofa  !  "  Does  any  one  of 
you  realize  what  that  means  for  a  lively 
healthy  girl  like  Beatie  ?  "  Oh  dear,  I 
shall  have  a  dreadful  time  of  it,  she  is  so 
self-willed!"  groaned  mamma,  ever  kind, 
but  with  many  household  cares. 

"  Miss  Beatrice  keen  still !  She'll  keep 
us  all  in  a  turmoil !  "  groaned  the  servants. 

44  She'll  be  laid  up  all  the  winter,  such  a 


28        UNCLE  EICHABD'S  STORIES. 

little  uncontrollable  quicksilver  as  she  is ! ' 
said  Aunt  Sarah,  who  had  nursed  Beatrice 
before. 

But  somehow  Uncle  Richard's  words 
had  touched  Beatie's  heart.  "  Even  a 
child  can  be  strong,  if  there  is  good  will  to 
help  strength."  She  would  be  strong,  so 
she  submitted  to  all  the  rubbings,  and  lay 
quietly  on  the  sofa,  only  now  and  then 
getting  impatient  at  her  imprisonment, 
then  determining  to  bear  it  with  a  good 
will,  and  be  strong.  Seeing  her  so  gentle 
and  patient,  every  one  did  their  best  to 
help  and  cheer  the  little  invalid.  Books, 
prints,  pets  of  all  sorts  came,  and  smiling 
friends,  glad  to  see  she  was  not  crying  and 
complaining,  as  they  expected.  Every  one 
tries  to  help  those  who  try  to  help  them* 
selves,  and  Beatrice  did  try. 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        29 

"  Well,  I  never  saw  so  bad  a  twist  so 
Boon  mended ! "  said  the  doctor,  about  a 
fortnight  after.  "  I  wish  all  iny  patients 
had  Miss  Elliot's  patience,  they  would  get 
over  their  troubles  a  good  deal  quicker, 
and  it  would  be  much  pleasanter  work 
attending  to  them,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  don't  understand  it,  doctor ;  but  I 
am  most  thankful  Beatie  has  been  a  help, 
instead  of  a  trouble,  on  the  sofa ;  and  oh, 
what  a  help  a  child  can  be  if  she  tries ! 
No  one  knows  how  much  the  mother  of  a 
family  has  to  think  about,  and  how  sorry 
and  troubled  she  is  when  any  of  the  chil- 
dren are  ailing !  "  Then,  as  Beatrice  came 
slightly  limping  into  the  room,  Mamma 
went  forward  to  meet  her,  and  leading  her 
to  her  own  easy-chair,  said,  with  a  kiss,  "  I 
was  just  saying  to  Doctor  Hall  that  J 


30        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

wondered  what  it  was  that  had  so  altered 
my  little  girl.  Where  did  she  learn  to  be 
considerate  and  patient  ?  You  are  my 
little  comfort  now,  instead  of  my  little 
troublesome  one.  What  has  changed  you, 
darling  ?  " 

"  Only  a  story  Uncle  Richard  told  roe, 
mamma." 


bright  sunny  Sunday  afternoon, 
when  the  very  birds  in  the  trees 
seemed  too  thoughtful  even  to 
sing  loudly,  but  chirped  their  gladness  in 
low,  subdued  hymns  of  thankfulness  for 
the  happy  summer  weather,  Uncle  Rich- 
ard, having  stolen  a  few  days  from  his 
town  duties,  is  strolling,  book  in  hand, 
up  and  down  the  garden-walk  at  the  back 
of  that  dear  old  country  house  he  loves. 
He  is  thinking  ho\v  beautiful  everything 
is  —  how  sweet  the  flowers,  how  blue  the 
sky,  how  solemn  the  hush  that  even  in 
far-off  country  places  is  somehow  only 


32        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

noticed  on  Sundays.  He  rambles  on,  un- 
til he  finds  himself  crossing  the  vegetable 
garden,  and  approaching  the  low  ivy- 
covered  nursery  window,  where  a  whole 
colony  of  busy  swallows  are  twittering 
peacefully  at  home  —  that  is,  the  outside 
—  but  from  within  the  room  different 
sounds  are  heard  —  sad  sounds  to  listen 
to  on  this  sweet  Sunday  afternoon. 

"  You're  a  horrid,  bad,  wicked  boy ; 
and  I've  a  mind  to  give  you  a  hard  slap, 
I  have  ! "  cries  a  girl's  voice,  raised  shrill 
and  high  with  passion. 

"  I'm  so,  so  solly,  Beatie  I "  sobs  a 
very  subdued,  childish  tone.  "  So  velly 
solly  I  did  it." 

"  '  Sorry ! '  what's  the  use  of  that  ? 
You've  been  and  torn  all  the  binding 
off  my  new  geography  prize,  and  poked 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.         33 

it  in  the  fire  —  you  know  you  have,  you 
little  monkey !  I  hate  you  !  " 

Then  comes  a  sudden  shriek ;  the  slap 
has  evidently  been  given.  The  culprit 
resents  with  kicks,  and  cries  for  "  Mam- 
ma, mamma !  "  and  the  nursery  window 
is  flung  open  with  such  a  sudden  bang  that 
several  young  swallows  chirp  with  alarm, 
and  Uncle  Richard  draws  back  unob- 
served, while  a  little  girl  comes  fluttering 
out,  and  runs  past  him,  wringing  her 
hands  with  rage. 

Can  this  be  his  pretty  Beatrice  ?  — 
her  golden  hair  all  dishevelled,  her  face 
crimson,  her  blue  eyes  flashing!  Can 
this  be  gentle  Beatrice,  who,  when  her 
frock  is  caught  by  a  pitying  white  rose, 
turns  to  break  it  from  its  stem,  and 
throws  it,  bruised  and  crushed,  into  the 


34         UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

bushes  ?  O  Passion,  what  an  ugly  mas- 
ter thou  art ! 

On  and  on  that  ugly  master  carries 
her,  till  he  flings  her  on  to  a  great 
mound  of  new-cut  grass,  all  scented 
with  dying  buttercups,  clover,  and  pink 
daisies,  fragrant  to  the  last.  She  lays 
her  throbbing  head  on  the  soft  pillow, 
and  cries,  almost  breathlessly,  "  Tiresome 
child  !  I  detest  him,  I  do  !  " 

A  brown-eyed  bird  perches  on  a  stone 
opposite  her,  and  seems  to  repeat  her 
words  in  a  loud  wondering  note,  "  Detest, 
detest,  detest!  I  detest  him,  I  do  —  do  — 
I  low  sad,  how  sad,  how  sad ! " 

"  Oh,  go  away,  do,  worry !  you  mako 
my  head  ache  !  " 

She  clutches  a  handful  of  turf,  to  throw 
at  him,  but  still  he  sits  and  sings,  or,  aa 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        35 

it  seems  to  her,  repeats  her  own  words, 
"  I  detest,  dete  -  e  -  st  him  !  " 

When  folks  sit  silently  listening  to  a 
bird,  Passion  gets  tired  of  their  company. 
So  it  is  with  Beatrice,  who  lets  the  turf 
drop,  and  begins  to  relent. 

"  Well,  of  course  I  don't  mean  that," 
she  thinks ;  "  I  mean  it  was  a  shame  of 
Freddie  —  naughty  boy.  I  wish  I  hadn't 
slapped  him  so  hard,  after  all,"  she  adds, 
as  Passion  disappears  from  the  scene ; 
"  poor  little  fellow  !  he  said  he  was  sorry." 
And  a  vision  of  the  tear-stained  rosy  face 
troubles  her  conscience.  Then  she  re- 
members some  words  his  mother  used  be- 
fore going  to  church  that  morning  —  "  Be 
kind  to  Freddie,  Beatrice,  when  I  am 
away ;  be  his  little  mother ;  he  is  almost 
a  baby,  remember,  dear,  and  you  are  a 
big  girl." 


36        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

u  Almost  a  baby  !  "  and  she  had  slapped 
him  and  shaken  him,  even  while  he  cried, 
"  Beatrice,  I  am  so  solly !  "  Should  she 
go  back  and  comfort  him  ?  No  ;  she  is 
not  equal  to  that,  when  she  thinks  of  her 
spoiled  "geography,"  and  so  she  stifles 
the  better  feeling  that  whispers  forgive- 
ness. For  a  good  half  hour  she  lies  on 
the  scented  grass ;  the  soft  pitying  sun- 
shine dries  her.  tears,  and  the  little  wild 
flowers  look  up,  and  wonder  how  she  can 
still  look  so  sober,  with  them  around 
her. 

"  Beatie,  Beatie !  wheje  are  you,  my 
girl  ?  "  cries  a  cheerful  voice  near. 

Poor  Beatie  !  she  must  face  her  uncle. 
Hot  and  flushed,  she  jumps  up,  wondering 
if  he  will  see  and  wonder  at  her  appear- 
ance. But,  no  ;  he  takes  no  notice.  Only 


UNCLE  EICHAKD'S  STORIES.        37 

more  kindly  than  usual,  if  possible,  he 
calls  her  to  look  at  a  rare  humming-bird 
moth  that  is  darting  in  and  out  of  all 
the  sweetest  flowers.  Then  they  get  to 
talking  about  bees  and  butterflies,  and 
the  thousand  and  one  country  sights  that 
please  townsfolk  so  much.  She  feels 
good  and  happy  again  —  almost. 

Presently  they  find  themselves  under 
the  old  walnut-tree  in  the  far  meadow, 
and  Uncle  Richard  proposes  that  they 
should  rest  a  while  on  the  soft  clover, 
and  have  a  little  quiet  talk. 

"  Uncle,"  says  Beatrice,  as  she  snuggles 
down  by  his  side,  "  do  you  remember  the 
pretty  story  you  told  me  here,  about 
Nelly  Mary  ?  —  you  know.  Will  you  tell 
me  another  like  it  ?  please  do." 

"  Tell   me,  first,   what  did    you  learn 


38        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STOEIES. 

from  that  one,  Beatie  ?  "  he  asked ,  softly 
stroking  her  hair. 

44 1  learnt  to  try  to  be  unselfish  and 
patient.  I  thought  I  had,  at  least ;  but, 
oh  dear  I  its  so  hard,  so  very  hard,  to  be 
good,  sometimes." 

She  is  thinking  how  angry  she  was  but 
just  now,  and  feeling  that  her  uncle  is 
looking  at  her  with  serious,  sad  eyes,  and 
knows  all  about  it. 

"  And  you  want  another  story  to  help 
you.  Well,  I  will  tell  you  one,  Beatie." 

44  A  true  one  !  "  she  cries,  eagerly. 

44  A  true  one,  dear ;  so  listen  to  the 
record  of  the  doings  of  a  little  country 
lass  —  for  no  dainty  lady  was  my  Jenny ; 
no  golden-haired  missy,  like  you,  Beat, 
with  hosts  of  toys  and  books,  and  fine 
silk  sashes.  No  !  my  Jenny  had  nothing 


UNCLE  EICHAED'S  STORIES.        89 

when  she  was  twelve  years  old,  but  her 
Johnny,  and  very  dear  and  precious  was 
he  to  her  unselfish  heart. 

"  At  the  time  I  am  speaking  of,  Jenny 
and  her  Johnny  —  thus  they  were  always 
spoken  of  —  were  living  in  a  poor  little 
hut  on  the  outskirts  of  a  forest.  Their 
father  had  been  killed  by  a  falling  wall ; 
and  worn  out  with  sorrow  and  fretting, 
their  poor  gentle  hard-working  mother 
felt  herself  growing  weaker  every  day. 
She  grew  thinner  and  whiter,  and  more 
anxious,  as  she  looked  at  her  two  children, 
and  tried  to  trust  them  without  a  murmur 
to  that  God  who  has  promised  that  He 
would  be  a  father  to  the  fatherless. 

"  Jenny  was  a  slight,  thoughtful  girl, 
tall  and  brown-eyed  ;  and  little  three-year 
old  Johnny  was  fat,  rosy,  and  masterful. 


iO        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

No  wonder  the  mother  wondered  what 
would  become  of  them  wtien  she  was 
gone,  for  they  had  no  relations,  and  few 
friends.  Yet  she  had  a  true  and  trusting 
heart,  this  poor  dying  widow,  working 
so  hard  at  her  embroidery  to  the  last, 
while  Jenny,  all  unconscious  of  the  com- 
ing shadow:  bustled  about  the  two  tiny 
rooms  cooking,  cleaning,  mending,  in  a 
manner  perfectly  surprising  in  a  girl  of 
her  age.  She  knew  her  mother  was 
ailing,  and  that  her  strong  young  arms 
could  help  her,  so  she  did  all  the  hard 
work  without  a  murmur,  while  the  mother 
sat  stitching. 

•  "  But  the  day  came  when  that  mother's 
hand  dropped  wearily ;  when  the  needle 
would  no  longer  trace  the  dainty  outline 
of  roses  and  lilies  ;  then  she  took  Johnny 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        41 

in  her  arms,  and  called  Jennv.  still  hold- 
ing her  boy  tenderly  to  her  heart. 

"  4  My  Jenny/  she  said,  '  I  am  going  to 
jive  you  a  sacred  trust.  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  to  be  a  little  mother  to  our 
Johnny.  Will  you  promise,  that  I  may 
turn  to  God  in  peace  and  ask  Him  to 
watch  over  you  both,  my  poor  forlorn 
lambs?" 

"  It  was  a  sad,  sad  awaking  for  poor 
Jenny,  who  loved  her  patient  mother 
dearly ;  so  dearly  that  she  tried  to  bear 
the  blow  as  quietly  as  possible.  Pres- 
ently, when  the  poor  girl  was  able  to  stay 
the  bitter  sudden  tears  that  would  make 
her  feel  sick  and  faint  with  the  great 
trouble  to  come,  the  mother  placed 
Johnny  in  her  arms,  and  drew  both  their 
young  heads  to  hei  sorrowful  patient 


42        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

heart,  blessing  and  caressing  them  both, 
while  she  said  falteringly,  '  Jenny,  my 
daughter,  promise  me  now  this  one  thing 
and  we  will  speak  no  more  of  the  cloud 
which  the  Lord  sees  fit  to  shadow  your 
young  lives  with.  Promise  that  you  will 
take  what  care  you  can  of  your  little 
brother.  That  you  will  try  to  teach  him 
to  be  good ;  that  some  day  I  may  hold 
you  both  again,  mine  for  ever  and  ever." 

" '  Mother,  I  promise  I  will  be  very  good 
to  him,'  sobbed  the  girl  through  her  tears. 

" '  And  you,  Johnny  darling,  try  and  be 
good  when  poor  mother  is  gone,  and  love 
Jenny.' 

"  But  Johnny,  who  had  been  staring 
with  wide  open  blue  eyes,  quite  speechless 
at  the  sight  of  Jenny's  tears,  burst  out 
with  a  sudden  roar  '  that  mother  should 


UNCLE  KICHARD'S  STORIES.        43 

not  go;  she  should  not  leave  him;  ho 
would  have  no  other  mother ;  thai  he  loved 
her ;  that  he  would  fight  any  one  who 
tried  to  take  her  away  ; '  and  he  clenched 
his  dimpled  fists,  and  shook  them  at 
Jenny,  as  though  she  were  the  aggressor. 

"  But  before  the  autumn  leaves  had 
fallen,  his  mother  did  go  ;  and  Jenny  and 
Johnny  were  alone  —  alone  in  that  dreary 
little  cottage.  And  Jenny  sat  weeping, 
with  her  hand  hidden  in  the  scanty  black 
skirt,  while  the  boy  played  at  her  feet. 

"  But  as  she  sat  sobbing  there,  thinking 
only  of  her  own  forlorn  state,  he  gradually 
left  off  his  game,  came  with  scared  looks, 
and,  laying  his  tangled  curly  locks  on  her 
lap,  declared  that  she  should  be  his  mother 
as  long  as  she  liked,  if  she  only  would 
leave  off  crying,  and  take  him  just  a  bit. 


44        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

"  Then  Jenny  threw  aside  the  black 
skirt,  and,  kissing  the  tearful  rosy  face, 
renewed  the  promise  she  had  made  to  her 
dead  mother.  She  would  do  her  best  for 
Johnny's  sake  ;  and  she  sat  there  rocking 
him  until  the  little  fellow  fell  asleep  in  her 
arms. 

"  Then  she  laid  him  in  his  bed ;  and 
shaking  off  the  feeling  that  made  her  sit 
there,  uncaring,  with  her  face  hidden,  sha 
bathed  her  swollen  eyes,  brushed  her  hair, 
and  got  the  place  in  order,  even  fetching 
out  the  embroidery  frame  which  her 
mother  had  used  so  long,  and  which 
she  had  put  out  of  sight  in  her  first 
despair. 

"  And  the  next  day,  when  she  found  a 
little  lost  lamb  bleating  so  pitifully  at  her 
door,  she  took  it  up  and  carried  it  in  hei 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        45 

arms  till  she  found  its  fond  anxious  mother ; 
4  So,'  she  thought,  '  will  I  care  for  Johnny. 
Some  day  I  will  give  him  to  our  mother, 
who  will  rejoice  as  this  one  does,  only 
a  good  deal  more,  because  it  will  be 
heaven  there.' 


CHAPTER  II. 

that  day  Jenny  sat  aside  all 
thought  of  herself.  Her  whole 
heart  was  set  upon  keeping  her 
promise,  and  bravely  and  nobly  she  did  it ; 
early  and  late  she  toiled ;  she  went  from 
house  to  house  earning  a  few  pence  here 
and  there  —  never  begging,  mind  ;  never 
taking  anything  she  had  not  earned ;  but 
never  thinking  any  work  too  hard  that 
brought  in  money.  Her  mother  had  been 
very  skillful  at  her  needle,  and  the  girl 
took  after  her  ;  at  spare  times,  or  when 
Johnny  was  asleep,  she  practised  at  the 
embroidery  frame,  but  eoarsei  work  did 

46 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        47 

not  make  her  fingers  very  fit  for  such 
delicate  materials,  nor  did  she  very  well 
know  how  to  dispose  of  the  few  articles 
she  had  managed  to  embroider  to  her  sat- 
isfaction. The  people  at  the  big  house 
were  away,  and  no  one  else  wanted  such 
things.  Still  she  scrambled  along  somehow 
till  Johnny's  fourth  birthday;  the  day 
when  I  first  saw  her  and  heard  her  simple 
story. 

"  I  happened  to  be  delayed  in  the  vil- 
lage for  a  day  or  two,  and,  taking  a  very 
early  morning  stroll,  saw  a  young  gir] 
standing  at  an  old-fashioned  doorway  feed  - 
ing  chicks.  It  was  such  a  sweet,  bright 
smiling  lace,  that  I  could  not  resist  smiling 
back  at  it. 

"  '  What  an  early  breakfast  you  are  giv* 
ing  your  noisy  family,  little  maid  ! '  I  said. 


48        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

" « It's  my  Johnny's  birthday,  and  I 
want  to  get  done  early,  sir,'  she  answered, 
quite  as  though  everybody  knew  her  John- 
ny- 

"  Later  on  there  was  a  great  stir  among 
the  villagers.  Jenny's  Johnny  was  missing 
from  the  cottage,  and  Jenny  was  as  one 
out  of  her  mind. 

"  Jenny,  it  seemed,  had  one  little  arti- 
cle which  she  treasured  next  to  Johnny  — 
it  was  a  lovely  lawn  handkerchief,  all 
gaily  embroidered  with  red  roses,  the  work 
of  her  loved  mother  when  a  girl.  It  had 
always  been  most  carefully  preserved  ;  and 
every  now  and  then  Jenny  took  it  out  of 
the  little  drawer  filled  with  lavender,  and 
admired  and  cried  over  it.  Of  course, 
wearing  it  was  out  of  the  question  ;  it  wag 
far  too  precious  for  that.  She  had  even 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        49 

refused  a  golden  half  sovereign  offered  for 
it  by  the  peddler  who  had  •  come  that  way 
to  the  fair. 

"  Of  late  she  had  been  too  busy  to  look 
at  her  treasure,  for  people  were  getting 
used  to  employ  the  clever  willing  girl ;  and 
poor  as  they  were,  many  a  shilling  came  in 
Jenny's  way  to  help  her  keep  her  promise 
and  her  Johnny. 

"  Well,  it  happened  very  unfortunately, 
that  the  said  Johnny,  being  left,  as  he 
often  was,  to  amuse  himself  as  best  he 
could,  took  it  into  his  head  to  get  on  the 
top  of  the  table  and  pull  open  the  small 
drawer,  by  the  fireside,  where  lay  the 
precious  handkerchief  all  by  itself. 

"  '  Mammy's  pretty  wed  woses ;  how 
nice  you  'mell !  "  cooed  the  boy,  holding 
the  handle,  and  bending  over  the  drawer. 


60        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

"  Somehow  he  missed  his  footing,  and 
came  down,  drawer,  '  woses,'  and  all ; 
only  he  came  down  on  his  head,  and 
screamed  as  four-year-old  boys  can,  and 
the  poor  '  woses '  fluttered  out  of  his 
hand  on  to  the  fender.  Luckily  there 
was  no  fire. 

"  Old  Bridget,  from  her  cottage,  came 
to  see  the  cause  of  the  screaming,  and 
found  my  lord  with  a  great  bruise  on  his 
forehead,  and  the  empty  drawer  clutched 
in  his  fat  hand.  As  she  opened  the  door 
something  red-and- white  fluttered  on  to 
the  bars,  then  up  the  broad  open  chim- 
ney, then  away  —  who  knows  where  but 
the  wind-angels  ? 

"  Oh,  how  poor  Jenny  cried  when  she 
found  her  precious  little  handkerchief 
gone !  What  a  grief  and  a  trouble  it 


UNCLE  KIC HARD'S  STOBIES.         51 

was  to  her ;  yet  she  never  said  a  harsh 
word  to  the  child  that  had  set  her  heart 
aching,  but  tenderly  bathed  the  great 
bump  on  his  forehead,  sobbing,  while  he 
looked  at  her  with  wondering  troubled 
eyes.  He  knew  it  was  all  grief  for  that 
handkerchief  that  was  lost. 

"  '  Don't  cwy,  likle  mother !  Other 
mother's  woses  flewd  away  —  back  to 
other  mother  who  did  'em.  P'raps  she'll 
send  'em  to  Jenny  again,  p'raps.' 

" '  Mother  is  in  heaven  ;  it's  too  far, 
dear.' 

" '  Is  it  furder  than  the  middle  of  the 
forest  ?  "  asked  Johnny.  4  Couldn't  I  ask 
her  to  give  'em  you  again  ?  She  made 
'em  first.' 

" '  Oh  hush,  Johnny  !  I  wish  you 
could.  But  it's  no  use  talking ;  bed  time 


52        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

now,  dear,  and  you  must  go  to  bed,  be- 
cause sister  has  to  get  out  early  and  earn 
some  breakfast  for  Johnny.' 

"As  she  laid  the  sturdy  child  down, 
she  kissed  her  boy  as  tenderly  as  ever, 
for  she  remembered  he  was  almost  a  baby, 
and  she  a  big  girl,  as  you  know,  Beatrice." 
Beatrice  thought  of  that  other  boy,  almost 
a  baby,  that  she  had  been  so  harsh  to,  and 
blushed. 

"Well,  the  next  day,  as  I  told  you, 
Johnny  was  lost.  Jenny  had  gone  out 
to  help  do  some  washing,  and  Bridget 
had  left  the  child  happily  feeding  a  brood 
of  tiny  chicks  round  about  the  cottage 
door.  She  had  thought  no  more  about 
him,  till  the  unusual  silence  struck  her. 

"  c  Johnny ! '  for  an  hour  or  two  she 
called  all  about  the  place,  but  no  Johnny 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        53 

answered  her,  and  too  spoil  she  found 
that  Johnny  had  vanished  —  but  wher^  ° 
The  few  and  far  neighbors  had  not  seen 
him,  and  Bridget  wrung  her  old  hands 
when  she  thought  of  the  river,  and  the 
possibility  of  his  having  strayed  so  far 
alone.  Those  little  red  legs  were  firm 
and  strong. 

44  111  news,  they  say,  fly  apace,  and 
certainly  it  was  not  long  before  the 
knowledge  of  her  brother's  disappearance 
reached  Jenny,  who  went  flying,  white- 
faced,  seeking  and  calling  for  the  child, 
but  no  answer  came.  Kind  men,  who 
had  gone  round  about  the  place,  returned 
one  by  one  without  the  slightest  clue. 
The  daylight  passed  away,  and  darkened 
into  night,  and  then  midnight :  sti]l  no 
token  or  sign  of  the  lost  boy  of  pool 
half-frantic  Jenny. 


54        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

" '  We  can  look  nowhere  else  to-night, 
my  poor  child  !  '  said  my  friend,  who  had 
been  eager  in  the  chase  ;  '  we  have  gone 
every  way  —  far  beyond  any  distance  he 
could  have  wandered.  Try  and  take  pa- 
tience till  morning  dawns ;  we  will  surely 
find  him  then ;  he  cannot  have  disap- 
peared altogether,  you  know.' 

"  Jenny  listened  with  dry,  tearless  eyes, 
and  answered  huskily,  '  But  I  must  find 
him ;  I  promised  mother  to  take  care  of 
him.  What  will  she  think !  what  will 
she  think ! ' 

"'My  .dear,'  I  said,  'try  and  have  pa- 
tience. Your  mother  knows,  perhaps, 
how  faithfully  you  have  tried  to  keep 
your  promise.  As  soon  as  it  is  light  we 
will  scour  the  country  round,  and  bring 
you  your  boy.  We  can  do  no  more  to- 
night.1 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        u5 

44  But  she  only  wrung  her  hands,  and 
darted  from  the  crowd,  to  resume  her 
fruitless  search,  for  in  the  darkness  we 
could  every  now  and  then  hear  that  piti- 
ful cry  — '  Johnny,  Johnny,  where  are 
you,  dear?'  But  still  no  answer  came 
to  bless  her. 

"  I  do  not  think  many  people  in  the 
village  slept  that  night ;  I  did  not  for  one. 
That  dark  flowing  river  had  been  in  my 
thoughts  as  it  had  been  in  others'  — 
luckily  it  never  entered  those  of  Jenny ; 
but  every  time  I  dozed  I  woke  up  with 
a  frightened  start.  So,  when  the  first 
pale  light  showed  itself  I  rose,  and 
dressed,  and,  going  gently  down  stairs, 
passed  into  the  garden  and  the  lane  be- 
yond. 

"It   was  a   soft  gray   spring  morning, 


56        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

and  only  one  cock  made  itself  heard. 
All  seemed  so  hushed  and  still  that  I  felt 
quite  depressed  as  I  went  round  the  back 
of  the  cottages  towards  the  one  where 
the  lost  child  had  so  lately  nestled. 

"  It  looked  very  solitary  standing  there 
alone ;  the  flowers  drooped,  the  windows 
were  some  of  them  open,  and,  looking 
in  at  the  little  parlor,  I  saw  a  slim  girl's 
figure  kneeling  by  the  side  of  an  empty 
crib.  She  was  in  her  hat  and  shawl, 
just  as  she  had  left  her  washing  yester- 
day :  she  had  evidently  fallen  asleep  pray- 
ing for  her  Johnny's  safety.  Retreating 
as  softly  as  possible,  I  was  quite  startled 
by  a  sudden  gruff  squeak,  and  nip  at  my 
legs ;  looking  round  to  see  what  this 
meant,  I  found  I  had  disturbed  the  repose 
uf  a  solemn  old  one-eyed  jackdaw,  that 


UNCLE  EICHAED'S  STOEIES.        57 

appeared  to  have  been  sleeping  in  the 
remains  of  a  chip  basket.  I  cannot  tell 
why,  at  a  time  when  my  mind  was  filled 
with  far  other  things,  I  should  have 
stooped  down  to  talk,  to  look  in  at  the 
retreat  of  this  wise  old  bird  —  perhaps 
it  was  because  I  felt  myself  so  useless  as 
yet.  However,  stoop  down  I  did,  and 
peering  into  the  basket  saw  there  was  a 
child's  hat  lying  at  the  back  of  it  filled 
with  rubbish.  Well,  after  all,  it  might 
be  any  child's  hat,  but  this  had  a  green 
ribbon,  so  had  lost  Johnny's  ;  and  it  was 
clean,  so  was  Johnny's ;  how  came  it 
there  ?  and  the  old  jackdaw  looked  up  at 
me  witn  evil  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say, 
lAh,  you  would  like  to  know,  but  you 
won't ! '  and  went  hopping  off  in  great 
4udgeon.  I  felt  quite  angry  with  that 


58        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

bird ;  where  had  he  got  that  hat  from  ' 
After  all,  was  the  child  anywhere  near? 
and  did  the  jackdaw  know  it  ? 

"  Very  soon  the  neighbors  roused.  1 
showed  the  hat.  Mother  Bridget  declared 
it  to  be  the  one  the  missing  child  had 
worn  but  yesterday.  Where,  then,  had 
Jack  found  it?  While  they  searched 
every  nook  and  corner  he  was  known  to 
haunt,  I  followed  the  old  bird  for  more 
than  two  hours;  and  what  a  dance  he 
led  me !  I  dropped  things  for  him  to 
hide,  but  he  only  put  them  into  impossi- 
ble places,  and  then  screamed  and  hopped 
with  delight.  Still  he  kept  near  about 
the  cottage,  and  never  went  beyond  the 
great  straw-rick  in  the  meadow  beyond. 

"  Of  course  we  had  looked  round  this 
rick,  but  all  was  clear  there.  Yet  Jack 


UNCLE  RICHAKD'S  STOBIES*        59 

kept  his  one  eye  so  innocently  turned 
away  from  it  that  I  could  not  help  being 
suspicious,  and  came  back  several  times 
to  prod  at  it ;  Jack  following,  and  scream- 
ing angrily. 

"  *  'Taint  no  use,  master/  said  an  old 
laborer,  sorrowfully ;  '  t'  river's  the  next 
thing  to  look  into  ;  the  child  aint  a  mouse 
that  he  could  squeeze  into  this  here 
stack.' 

" '  He  couldn't  have  got  to  the  top, 
could  he  ?  '  I  asked,  doubtfully  ;  it  seemed 
such  a  foolish  question  to  ask  the  man. 

" '  He  couldn't  unless  he  had  wings,  like 
this  here  magpie,  as  seems  to  know  we 
ha'  lost  summat.'  answered  old  Saunuors,, 
rather  sneeringly. 

"  '  I  tell  you  what,  I'll  go  up  and  see,1 
I  said,  all  at  once,  more  out  of  contra- 
diction than  anything  else. 


80        UNCLE  EICHAED'S  STORIES. 

"Will  'ee,  sir?  I  make  bold  to  ask 
how  ?  we  aint  got  no  wings  to  lend  you, 
sir.' 

•"Well,  perhaps  you've  got  a  ladder 
instead,  Master  Clever.' 

"  '  There's  only  one  as  would  reach  in 
all  the  place,  and  that  belongs  to  Joe 
Brush  the  miller,  as  squints.' 

4i '  Well,  go  and  ask  Joe  Brush  to 
bring  it  here.' 

" '  Joe  went  to  Talford  yesterday, 
an'  he  keeps  it  locked  up  when  he's  away, 
leastways,  so  I've  heard.' 

" 1  sent  off  to  inquire  after  Joe's  lad- 
der ;  the  searchers  gradually  got  together; 
and  my  friend,  heading  them,  came 
towards  where  I  stood,  and  said,  4  We 
are  going  down  to  the  river,  now,  Rich- 
ard. What  are  you  doing  here  ?  won't 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        61 

you  come  with  us?  are  you  waiting  fox 
anything  ?  ' 

44  4  Waiting  for  Joe  Brush's  ladder,'  I 
answered. 

"  4  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  Why, 
my  poor  Jenny,  is  it  you  ?  You  must  go 
home  with  Bridget  here.  You  look  ready 
to  drop,  child. 

"  It  was  indeed  Jenny,  so  pale  and  wan, 
holding  that  little  straw  hat,  pressed  on 
her  arms.  But  she  was  not  crying,  only 
looking  anxiously,  first  at  one  face,  then 
at  another. 

44  4  Oh,  please  don't  give  up  looking 
for  Johnny  !  '  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands ;  4  he  can't  be  lost  —  can  he  ? 
Johnny,  Johnny  !  where  are  you  ? '  she 
almost  screamed  in  her  despair. 

44  Then   from    high    above    our    heads, 


62        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

came  a  sweet,  childish  voice,  muffled  and 
far-off,  4 1  am  here,  Jennie  !  I  am  here  ! ' 

"  Whiter,  whiter  grew  the  little  sister, 
who,  all  unprepared,  thought  it  was  a 
voice  from  the  skies  ;  as  to  us,  a  loud  and 
joyous  shout  answered  the  call.  And, 
how  it  happened  I  cannot  tell  you,  but 
before  Joe  Brush's  ladder  had  arrived, 
one  man  had  scrambled  on  another  man's 
back,  and  another  on  to  his,  and,  almost 
at  the  risk  of  a  broken  neck,  had  reached 
the  top  of  the  great  straw  heap,  into 
which,  somewhat  to  our  surprise,  he  dis- 
appeared, head-foremost,  it  seemed  to  us. 

"  4  All  right,  I've  got  'un ! '  came  his 
call. 

"  •  Where  are  you  both  ?  '  we  shouted. 

"  '  In  a  hole  !  little  'un  safe  and  sound, 
but  we  can't  get  out  till  the  laddei 
comes.' 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        63 

*'  What  a  rush  there  was  to  hurry  oil 
that  ladder  !  and,  oh  !  what  a  cheer  when 
Johnny ,  with  his  yellow  hair  all  on  end, 
and  his  blue  eyes  very  open  and  round, 
was  handed  out  of  his  hiding-place,  and 
passed  from  arm  to  arm,  till  he  rested  in 
those  of  Jenny,  hitherto  so  tearless,  now 
sobbing  as  though  her  heart  would  break 
with  very  joy. 

"  '  Don't  cry,  Jenny  ! '  with  his  fat  arms 
round  her  neck ;  '  don't  cry !  I  am  so 
hungry ;  and  see,  I  have  got  back  mother's 
woses.' 

44  And  sure  enough,  rolled  up  in  a  damp 
dirty  lump,  was  a  something  pink  and 
white  and  torn. 

44 1  need  not  ten  you  that  the  children 
had  not  far  to  go  for  a  breakfast  that 
morning,  or  indeed  any  other  morning. 


64        UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 

I  took  care  of  that,  at  any  rate.  For  a 
trifle  old  Bridget  looked  after  them  until 
Johnny  was  old  enough  to  go  to  a  good 
school,  and  Jenny  found  time  to  practice 
her  embroidery,  which  in  a  short  time  she 
did  so  well  that  she  had  no  lack  of  cus- 
tomers among  our  many  acquaintances. 
She  was  always  unselfish  and  devoted  —  a 
real  4  other  mother '  to  the  lad,  as  he  grew 
up  honest  and  true,  under  her  careful 
charge." 

44  But,  uncle,  how  did  he  get  up  into 
such  a  place  ?  and  where  did  he  find 
*  mother's  woses '  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  impor- 
tant part  of  my  story,  which  we  could 
not  quite  make  out  at  the  time.  We 
found  that  Joe  Brush  had  left  his  ladder 
against  the  straw  heap  for  a  short  time 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.        65 

on  the  day  Johnny  was  lost.  Joe*  re^ 
numbered  '  seeing  the  magpie  hopping 
about  the  ladder-foot,  with  some  red  rag, 
as  he  thought,  and  a  boy  running  after 
him.  We  could  suppose  the  child,  seeing 
the  bird  hopping  off  with  the  very  hand- 
kerchief his  sister  had  cried  about,  fol- 
lowed and  scrambled  up  the  ladder  after 
the  thief.  Once  on  the  top,  he  had 
tumbled  into  a  very  soft  resting-place, 
fortunately  unharmed,  and  after  crying  a 
bit,  had  burrowed  into  the  straw,  and 
had  fallen  asleep  —  his  hiding-place  solely 
visible  to  the  stars  —  and  was  awakened 
only  by  that  loud-appealing  call  of  'John- 
ny, where  are  you  ? '  It  was  fortunate 
we  were  near  enough  to  hear  his  answer, 
or  he  might  have  spent  an  unpleasant 
time  while  we  had  been  looking  every- 


66        UNCLfi  RICHARD'S  STORIES. 


where,  but  the  right  place  for  the  pool 
little  man. 

44  And  now,  Beatie,  my  story  is  finished, 
Has  it  taught  you  anything  ?  Will  you 
tell  me,  or  leave  me  to  judge  by  the  re- 
sult ?  " 

Beatie  bends  her  head  over  the  clover, 
and  smiles,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

44  Why,  I  declare,  there  is  Freddy  at 
the  window  !  I  must  go  and  say  4  Good- 
morning  '  to  the  little  fellow." 

Uncle  Richard  rises,  and  walks  across 
the  lawn,  and  away  to  where  the  little 
fellow  is  rubbing  his  nose  in  a  rather 
woebegone  state  on  the  glass.  But  he 
btops  at  sight  of  his  uncle. 

44  What's  the  matter,  old  man  ?  "  calls 
out  the  uncle,  from  below  ;  4t  what  are 
you  doing  there?" 


UNCLE  RICHARD'S  STORIES.         67 

"  Ma's  out,  and  I  all  'lone,  and  Beatie 
don't  love  me,  an'  its  all  mis'able !  "  says 
the  boy,  with  a  quiver  in  his  voice  and 

UP. 

Just  then  the  door  behind  him  opens, 
and  Beatie  steals  in,  and,  catching  up  the 
little  fellow  in  her  arms,  gives  him  such  a 
tender  loving  kiss  that  he  looks  amazed 
and  half-frightened. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  that  I  slapped  you,  Fred- 
dy !  I  was  very  cross,  I  know ;  but  I'll 
try  and  be  kind  another  time,  see  if  I 
don't." 

"Big  sister,  well,  I  won't  never  no 
more  tear  your  graffelly's  books,"  pro- 
tests Freddy,  earnestly,  as  he  claps  his 
hands  joyfully. 

I  don't  know  if  Freddy  will  keep  his 
promise  —  "he  is  almost  a  baby;"  but  1 


68 


UNCLE   RICHARD'S   STORIES. 


do  know  that  Beatrice  tries  very  hard  to 
keep  hers."  So  you  see,  Uncle  Richard's 
second  story  was  not  thrown  away. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


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